


none of me left, save those parts that are yours

by saltandlimes



Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gift Giving, Happily Ever After, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 11:58:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10966764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/pseuds/saltandlimes
Summary: Three years ago, Galen learned the truth about the project. Three years ago, he agreed to work with Orson, and bring all their dreams to reality.Now Orson wants to show Galen how much Galen means to him.





	none of me left, save those parts that are yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Iron_Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Iron_Dragon/gifts).



> A while back, [cuppyren](http://cuppyren.tumblr.com/) and I commissioned a piece of artwork based on an idea we had. 
> 
> [middle-sinclair](http://middle-sinclair.tumblr.com/) did an amazing job with it [here](http://middle-sinclair.tumblr.com/post/157595672668/galennic-commission-for-saltandlimes-and/)

Orson takes a deep breath. He resettles his cape across his shoulders, checking to be sure it's pinned tight to his tunic, flaring about his boots as he walks to the speeder pad. Coruscant is bright tonight, the air crisp and the stars just peaking through the haze of lights that clouds the night sky. 

Orson looks up for a long moment. Above him, a few speeders with high flying clearance flit back and forth. Not many though, not this high, his office perched far above the muck and bustle of the rest of the city. He bites his lip, trying not to think, trying just to feel the breeze against his face. 

The speeder growls as it pulls up in front of his office, and Orson looks down from the sky. The trooper driving nods to him, and he makes his way to the other seat. It's cold when he slides in, and tries to let it calm him, let it fill him up instead of the deep, gulping breaths he can't stop taking. 

The ride is silent. He's meeting Galen at the restaurant. It's one of Coruscant's most admired chef's newest creation, and it had taken the combined power of his and Galen's titles for Orson to get them a private room in the back. It is worth it, though. 

Three years. It's been three years since they finally found one another again, finally put aside their differences. Three years since Galen took the post as head of Project Celestial Power in truth, knowing full well where the project would lead. Three years since they had dinner and Orson kissed Galen. Three years since that first moment when he'd thought he might finally have Galen back as his own. 

And now he's meeting Galen to celebrate. 

He stares out over the hood of the speeder, shoulders rounding a little. He'd asked weeks ago, curled in Galen's bed, Galen's hand heavy on his waist. Galen had grinned at him in that lopsided way he has, a crooked tooth just peaking out from between his lips. 

_“Go out?” Galen's voice had been bright, full of laughter. “Why?”_

_Orson had blushed, turning away. He'd tried to get up then, to leave and go home to his empty apartment, his cold. But Galen had caught his wrist, fingers digging into the tendons._

_“Look at me, Orson,” he'd demanded._

_Orson had turned, and instead of finding the mocking glare he'd expected, Galen's eyes were soft. He'd collapsed back onto the bed next to Galen, looking down._

_“It'll be three years,” he'd reminded Galen. “I just want to show you how much it means to me that we're working together on the project.”_

_“Is that all?” Galen had asked._

_When Orson shook his head no, Galen had kissed him, lips pressing close to Orson's skin, making their faint marks across Orson's body, writing the story Galen's need for him in bright bruises._

So now, the speeder comes to a stop outside a busy landing platform and Orson gets out. He can do this. He can show Galen how much he cares, finally make Galen understand how important he is. 

Galen is more than a brilliant friend. He's more than a good fuck. He's more than the man Orson comes back to time and time again. He's more than a lover. 

He's a dream, a need. Orson can't breath but think of him. Orson can't sleep but feel Galen in his dreams. There is nothing to him, save those parts that belong to Galen Erso. And somehow, somehow he's going to tell Galen that. Even if he has to throw himself at Galen's feet to pledge his heart, he will prove himself tonight. 

He walks to the door of the restaurant. When he steps inside, the low buzz of voices floods about him, the smell of smoke and good food mingling together. He licks his lips slowly. 

“Can I help you, sir?” It's the host, a tall twi'lek man with his lekku carefully wound about his neck. 

“Reservation for Director Orson Krennic. It should be a private room.”

The host's eyes widen. It's minute, just the tiny twitch of pupils and the curl of the ends of his lekku, but it's enough. Orson can't help but grin. He makes sure his cape flares a little behind himself as he follows after the host. They make their way through the main room, all low chairs and benches, richly upholstered in deep reds and blues. Uniforms dot the room, most the dark drab of the Navy. But here and there are scientists, Army members, a few others. 

He steadfastly doesn't catch their eyes. Tonight is not for them. Not for smiling, making his way between the rows of men to turn them to his cause, his side. No, tonight is for something far more valuable. 

There's a curtain over the entrance to the private rooms, deep red and heavy with brocade. The host pushes it out of the way. Orson steps through to a long hall, a few doors branching off to each side. 

“The first door, sir,” the host murmurs from behind him, and Orson steps forward. It slides away at a wave of his hand before the reader, and he walks inside. There's a low table in one corner, a pair of armchairs. In the center of the room, the dinner table is set for two, wine glasses and plates carefully arranged. Orson paces across the room, cape swirling behind him. His fingers tap at this thigh. 

“Galen Erso. When he comes in, send him back here?” his voice is too high, thready.

“Yes, sir.” The host doesn't mention that Orson had said as much on his reservation. It is a blessing. 

Orson paces back and forth across the soft carpet. He can't hear the tap of his boots against it, hears instead the rush of his breath through his teeth, the way his tunic rustles when he wraps his arms around his sides. 

The door slides open again. 

He turns slowly. Galen is in his uniform, a small parcel tucked under one arm. His hair falls across his forehead. Orson's breath stops. Galen smiles at him, mouth wide and kind. 

“This is gorgeous, Orson,” he says, and Orson's skin flushes at the sound of his voice. He busies himself with trying to get his cape off. The clasps feel somehow more clumsy than ever before under his fingers, and for a moment he can't find the release. The fabric is too soft to his touch, and it slips between his fingers. 

He pauses for a long moment, looking up at Galen, trying to calm himself enough to unclasp the cape. Galen's eyes are bright, and he sets the package he's holding down on the desk. 

“How did you get a private room?” Galen asks. 

“Ah...” Orson clears his throat. “Asked around. Our names together...” he trails off, and Galen nods. He moves closer, careful grace, and Orson has always wondered how a poor boy from Grange came by that walk. He's been enthralled with it for so many years that he sees it behind his eyes when he falls asleep, the slow tread of Galen's feet tapping an endless rhythm through his dreams. 

Now, Galen is close enough that Orson can smell cloves and cinnamon, dark wood and the depths of night. He's dreamed of this smell too, for years. Before... before they found each other again, he'd stand on his balcony for hours, a clove cigarette clenched between his fingers, just breathing. He'd imagine that Galen was next to him, that if he opened his eyes, Galen would be standing there. 

Galen is here now, though. 

And his fingers come up to where Orson is still struggling with his cape. It's a few short seconds before Galen has the clasps undone. He catches the cape before it falls on the floor, folding it and handing it to Orson. 

“Is that better?” he asks. 

Orson nods, following Galen back to the table. Galen picks up the package again. It's wrapped in thin brown paper, the kind you can buy in the lower city if you need to wrap up something for mailing through Coruscant's courier service. Galen pulls it off quickly, and reveals a box made of some dark wood. 

At first, Orson thinks its synthetic, a careful replica. But Galen presses it into his hands, and he can feel the grain of it. It's real. 

“Galen, what is this?” he manages to ask. 

“You said tonight is special. I wanted to show you how special.” 

Orson's fingers tighten on the box. There's something heavy in Galen's words, in the way they settle on him. They press against him, vowels thick and dark. 

“Should... Should I open this now, Galen? Or... after dinner?” The words are hard to get out. He's going to have to say something. If he opens this, that means its time to tell Galen everything he's been meaning to say. It's time to open up his heart and leave it there, bare to the wind and the sun and the ravages of Galen's will. 

“Now, Orson,” Galen tells him. 

Orson nods. He runs his fingers across the seam of the box's lid, trying to find a scanner. Instead, there's a narrow band of metal. In it, a hole gapes, and somehow Orson recognizes it as one that needs a key. He looks at Galen, eyes wide. Galen reaches into the pocket of his uniform and pulls out a thin golden key on a long chain. 

“What is this, Galen?” Orson asks, taking the key from him. He fits it into the lock, twisting it delicately. There is a click, and the lid springs open a little. 

“It's from Grange. I found it there after the war.” He says nothing else, but his eyes are bright. Orson didn't go with him on that trip. Galen had wanted to go alone, to see the destruction that the Separatists had brought to his homeland. He'd come back, pale-faced and shaken, with a crate of small trinkets.

“Open it.”

Galen's words shake Orson out of the past, and he pushes the lid open. Inside there is soft velvet, a cloth covering something. He draws it back. 

Orson's heart stops beating. 

He wonders if his entire body stops in that moment. If, for just a single instant, he hangs suspended between the breaths of the universe, between the flow of the Force, frozen. The world fades away, and all he can see is what is right in front of him. 

Two crystals. 

Tiny, delicate things. They're each strung on heavy cords, look to be pendants. They glimmer with a light all of their own, pulsing with radiance. Kyber crystals, with flaming hearts and living souls. 

“One for each of us,” Galen murmurs. “You gave them to me. Do you remember?”

Orson nods, still frozen, unable to speak. 

“I had them set for us. Will you wear yours?” Finally, finally Galen's voice wavers.

“Yes,” Orson gasps out. 

Galen lifts one of the necklaces from the box, clasping it around his own neck. Then he takes out the other one. Orson sets the box back on the table, clutching his cape to himself. He shivers when Galen makes his way around behind him, pressing close. 

“Why?” he asks, voice so quite he can hardly hear it himself. 

Galen leans forward, draping the necklace around him. He presses so close that Orson flushes with the heat of his body. 

“Because I love you,” Galen whispers in his ear. “Because you are mine, and I am yours. Because finally, finally, we understand one another.” 

He clasps the cord around Orson's neck, but stays there, cheek pressing to Orson's hot one. 

“Because we belong together, forever.” There's a hitch in Galen's voice. “Because it's a promise. To never leave you again. To take care of you forever. To be yours forever.”

Orson trembles. His bones, his body, his soul shakes at the words. He has wanted this since he was fifteen years old.

“What are you saying, Galen?” he manages to blurt out. 

“Be mine. Marry me. Make it more than just a promise.”

And that's when tears start. That's when he collapses into Galen's arms, turning to kiss him. And every breath, every beat of his heart, they are all a single word. 

Yes.

**Author's Note:**

> Perfume notes: Galen wears the SW equivalent of Serge Noire by Serge Lutens
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [saltandlimes](http://saltandlimes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
